


The Meaning of Forgiveness

by aralias



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: De-Aged, De-Aged Doctor, M/M, Year That Never Was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master is different. He has had more chances that anybody else will ever be given, but still the Doctor forgives him. Completely. It’s partly because forgiving those who don’t deserve it is what he does, and partly because he assumed that without his forgiveness the Master would never get better. And he needs the Master to get better. It occurs to him now, for the first time, that the perhaps the Master doesn’t need his forgiveness. And that, perhaps, he actually deserves to be forgiven. (Valiant fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Meaning of Forgiveness

The two guards on duty in the board room are tired and bored. As they discuss the recent devastation of Chile over extra-hot, super-strength coffee, the Doctor crawls past them, un-seen, and out into the Valiant’s main corridor. It is six o’clock in the morning and this is his seventh daring escape attempt.

Once out, he stands awkwardly and considers where to run this time. The destination is arbitrary, but must seem convincing. Within half an hour he will be back in his tent, probably handcuffed to a hot water pipe, but the aim of these daring escape attempts is not to escape. It is to convince the Master that he is trying to escape, because that is what very clever people trapped by their arch-nemesises do. They escape. The Doctor is very good at escaping.

Previously he has gone to visit Jack down in the cargo hold. They exchange light hearted banter as if back on board the TARDIS and the Doctor pretends to loosen the manacles around Jack’s wrists. It is almost like fun. On his last visit, though, he noticed what he ought to have seen earlier. The captain’s right hand is now missing three finger nails.

“Yer, funny thing,” Jack says, when he points it out. “Hurt like hell when they pulled them out. They’re not growing back though. I thought they would.”

“They should have done,” the Doctor agrees, holding Jack’s mutilated hand carefully about a meter away from his face at optimum viewing distance. “But the nail beds have been… _de-aged_ out of existence.” He lets go of the hand. “There’s just nothing normal about you any more, is there, Jack?”

“I like to think there never was.”

The Doctor sighs, blinks and rubs his eyes. His eyesight has grown worse with extreme age. Even if it hadn’t, the Master stepped on his glasses in the first week of imprisonment. Close up everything seems underwater. “They might grow back eventually, but I just don’t know. This kind of thing isn’t supposed to happen. No need to ask who did it, but… why? What’s the point?”

“I think he found killing me just didn’t do it for him any more,” Jack drawls.

“No, that’s not it. No, you’re… being _punished_ for my visits, aren’t you? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Don’t worry about it. Still got seven more just like ‘em.” Jack waggles the fingers in question as if to prove this, then he stops because it isn’t really that funny. He says: “You’re not coming back, are you?” It isn’t really a question.

The Doctor shakes his head. “I can’t, I’m sorry. What if he de-ages your entire arm?”

“I’ll learn to write with my feet,” Jack says. “My handwriting was never that good to begin with.” The hold fills with the sound of booted feet drumming on the gangway outside. “Looks like they’re here to take you home. Nice seeing you, Doctor.” He leans forward as far as the chains will allow and kisses the Doctor more fiercely than a man of 130 could reasonably expect.

“You’ll lose a finger for that,” the Doctor says, smiling as he is led away.

Jack grins back. “Totally worth it.”

But it isn’t, though, strangely, the Master never mentions Jack or the missing fingernails. When the time comes, Jack will be one of those who remembers, who will bear the scars of the year that won’t have been. And if the Master somehow finds a way to kill him, he will be will one of the few who will stay dead, whether or not he’s made a decision about that.

No, best to leave Jack alone and find somewhere else to escape to today. The TARDIS is a possibility, but a pointless one without a key. So, keeping low, he chooses a new direction and resumes his exploration of the ship.

The interior is austere. All the corridors are black and white, and clearly designed to confuse those wandering through without permission. There are no generic, brightly coloured works of modern art and certainly no signs indicating the way around the ship. This is a shame because the Doctor rather likes signs and their willingness to be of assistance, but he doesn’t need them.

He passes the cafeteria (unmarked) and continues down the corridor and into an, as yet, unexplored area of the ship. There are three doors in sight, which could all potentially lead somewhere interesting, but the Doctor’s mental image of the Valiant suggests the third conceals a set of stairs up to the next level, which has been entirely converted into the Master’s living area so he rules that out quickly - too clumsy. Not believable. A quick sniff at the first allows him to conclude that it must be some sort of laundry room and therefore unfit for all but the least daring of escapes. Which only leaves the second door.

This door smells strangely and overwhelmingly of hot-chocolate. It is also unlocked, and so the Doctor, who has always been fascinated by doors in high security locations left suspiciously unlocked, pushes it open. As he does so, the lights flicker on illuminating a yellow room filled with small beds. In each bed is a sleeping child, no older than five years old. There must be at least twenty of them. None look sick or maltreated and several are even hugging dolls. They look happy.

“Well… this is _odd_ ,” the Doctor says to nobody in particular, because it is.

The brown-haired girl nearest to him shifts in her bed at the noise and opens her eyes, blinking sleepily. “Hello,” the Doctor says, kneeling next to her. Instinctively she pulls the blue duvet up to her nose. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. You can go back to sleep. I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

“I know _that_ ,” the girl says with the tone of one being told two and two equals four. “You’re the Doctor. He said you,” she yawns, “fix people.”

And with this bizarre announcement she turns over and goes back to sleep. In the corridor the Doctor can hear doors being roughly opened and then closed. They have begun to look for him.

He leaves quietly so as not to wake any of the children. Three soldiers he has long since stopped trying to bond with lead him firmly back to the board room and handcuff him to a hot-water pipe.

*

Once again the Master fails to say anything about the botched escape attempt when he makes his morning inspection, which the Doctor regards as highly suspicious as, surely, he must know. They sit opposite each other at the boardroom table taking breakfast. It has become an enforced ritual, which the Doctor tells himself he tolerates because whilst they sit and eat croissants together he can keep an eye on the other Time Lord.

The Master drinks Earl Grey tea with milk, no sugar, which, once picked up, is not put down again until finished. Whilst the world beneath him burns, he talks cheerfully about how he watched the fourth Star Wars trilogy again the night before. Apparently it’s much better than the last two lots, though not as good as the originals, but then what is? He leaves spaces for the Doctor to answer in, though the Doctor rarely speaks to him now, whatever the topic. Today, however, after the Master has finished detailing the Sith’s major errors in galactic governing, the Doctor’s decides its time for a change in policy.

Slowly, he says: “If you’re going to hurt them, why haven’t you told me?”

If the Master is surprised by the topic change he doesn’t show it. He shrugs. “For fun? I don’t know. Why haven’t I told you about hurting who?” He sips the tea thoughtfully, eyes never leaving the Doctor over the edge of the mug. “If you’re not going to be more precise I can’t help you.”

“The children. In the beds,” the Doctor says. “Those children I saw this morning. I know how you work. Jack, well, that was a warning to stay away, I understand that. Well, I understand why you did it, anyway. But this - I don’t know what this is. Surely, you need me to know, otherwise what’s the point? Why bother to keep twenty healthy children cooped up on the Valiant, unless it’s to keep me on good behaviour? If it is - why haven’t you told me?”

“Well,” the Master says. “Someone’s _certainly_ got a high opinion of himself. You know, I don’t think you’ve said this much since you got here. I’m quite enjoying it actually. Sometimes I get tired of my own vo-”

 _“Tell me what you’ve done to them!”_ the Doctor yells. It’s a mistake, losing control, and they both know it.

The Master finishes his tea. He sets the mug down on the board room table carefully and rotates it until the handle is parallel to the edge. Finally he looks back up at the Doctor, who is still glowering at him, and smiles broadly. “Nothing,” he says.

“What?” the Doctor says.

“Nothing. As in… I haven’t done anything to them. Sorry, should I have?”

“Nothing at all?”

“No.”

The guard has begun to change, which means breakfast is almost over. The Master checks his watch, which appears to offer a satisfactory time because he does not get up.

“You know, I _almost_ feel upset. Aren’t you still convinced there’s an itty-bitty bit of good buried deep down beneath my heartless exterior? Harming _children_? Have I really been that awful?”

The Doctor sighs and says quietly, “you know the answer to that.”

“Now, don’t start that again,” the Master warns. “I’ve just eaten. I don’t want to be sick. The TARDIS told me about Dalek Sec and how you _welcomed_ him into your bosom like a lost lamb. And he killed your people and trapped whatever-her-name-was in another world. Apparently even that wasn’t bad enough to make you really angry. Another touching story of your goodness obviously. Terribly sad ending though. ‘And then they all died quickly and horribly, except the Doctor, who was left behind to think on what he had done.’ Not one for the kids.” He stands up and brushes minute crumbs of pastry from his suit. “But that’s how all your stories end; isn’t it, Obi-Wan?”

The Doctor says nothing. They both know by now that however angry he gets, he will always forgive the Master. It was John Smith who cried out for revenge on the Family. The Doctor is a no-second chances sort of man, but he is never merciless. Had it not been for the human’s grief he would have been kind and let them die.

The Master is different though. He has had more chances that anybody else will ever be given, but still the Time Lord forgives him. Completely. It’s partly because forgiving those who don’t deserve it is what he does, and partly because he assumed that without his forgiveness the Master would never get better. And he needs the Master to get better. It occurs to him now, for the first time, that the perhaps the Master doesn’t need his forgiveness. And that, perhaps, he actually deserves to be forgiven.

“You really haven’t hurt the children?” he asks, just to be sure.

“This is getting boring,” the Master says, “I know your social calendar is blissfully empty, but I have a world to run. Believe me or don’t believe me — it doesn’t matter either way.”

He leaves without looking back and the Doctor spends the day thinking. At seven o’clock in the evening a guard stops to attention outside his tent. “Citizen rejoice,” he intones. “A message from our Lord and Master.”

He holds out a note, crisply folded into four and the Doctor takes it from him, remembering to say thank you, because he believes that good manners are always appropriate.

The Master’s handwriting is the same as it was back when the Doctor used to copy answers from him in the Academy. The letters are large and round and still strangely childish after nine hundred years. He has written: _You still don’t believe me, do you? Oh, all right, I’ll let you out for the night. Just don’t crawl under the tables this time, old man. It’s acutely embarrassing at your age._

The Doctor smiles fondly and gets to his feet. He hands the paper back to the guard, who, clearly not sharing the Doctor’s views on politeness, takes a brief look at the Master’s note and says: “what is this rubbish, citizen?”

“Sorry,” the Doctor says, taking the note back. “Old High Gallifreyian. I forgot you wouldn’t be able to read it. It’s a language,” he explains, when the guard still looks as if he’s about to punch him for talking nonsense. “Long dead now… Bit like your Latin. Not structurally, obviously, but they’re both dead now, which is why I used that particular analogy. I always liked Latin. Brilliant language. Completely logical, _un_ like Old High Gallifreyian actually. Did you know that they had fifty-seven different forms of the word time? _Fifty-seven_. Madness. Well, of course, it was the language of the _Time_ Lords, so in that sense, yes, it was logical, but nobody really _needs_ fifty-seven different variations and nobody ever, _ever_ used them. We just lumped them all together in a big ball and said “Time”, because that’s all it is — time: a big _ball_ and nobody understands that better than a Time Lord, so again - why fifty seven? Madness, isn't it?”

He feels like grinning. He feels like himself. How ridiculous that four lines in a dead language - two of them actively insulting - should provoke such a reaction. This is why he keeps forgiving the Master — for moments like this.

The guard is clearly losing patience. “What is the message, citizen?”

“Well I could translate it for you, but you don’t really care, do you? It says that I’ve been summoned to our Master’s presence. Take me to your leader!”

He feels almost young again as he strides down the corridor after the increasingly disgruntled guard. At the hot-chocolate-y door they stop and go through the ‘citizens rejoice’ business the Master insists on. Then the Doctor pushes the door open again and walks in.

Inside he finds the Master seated on one of the small beds with the children clustered around him, expectant and happy. They are being very loud and nobody notices him until one of the boys closest to him says: “Master, there’s a man here,” which makes them all turn round.

“Only me,” the Doctor says, waving. “Hello. What’s going on then?”

“It’s the Doctor,” somebody whispers.

“Yes, that’s me,” the Doctor says, wondering again how they know this. “Hello.”

“Doctor,” the Master says, smiling. “You’re just in time.”

“In time for what?” the Doctor asks, genuinely bemused.

Before the Master can answer, however, a small boy wearing a Harry Potter t-shirt has forced a book into the Master’s hands. “Read this one,” he says imperiously.

The Master turns it over in his hands and grimaces with distain “Even if this wasn’t a strong contender for worst book ever written, you forced me to read it yesterday, which rules it out. The wooden hill is the stairs: we all worked it out on page two. Now let’s all forget about it. Any other requests? Bear in mind that anything in which animals wear clothes will be automatically rejected on grounds of taste.”

“What does automatically mean?” one, almost foolishly brave, girl asks.

“It means no stories with animals,” the Master says.

“So, what does rejected mean?” the girl asks again.

“Question time is later. If you don’t pick, I’ll be forced to read the phone-directory again.”

The children groan and squabble and force other brightly coloured books into the Master’s hands. The Doctor takes a seat on one of the beds and watches in amazement as the negotiations over which bedtime story Earth’s supreme overlord should read next take place before him.

Finally one of the children points at the Doctor and says: “Tell us one of his stories” which meets with almost universal approval from the others. The Master purses his lips and doesn’t meet the Doctor’s eyes. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer the one about the squirrel and the stairs?” he asks.

“No!” the children shout in unison. “We want the Doctor!”

The Doctor is beginning to wonder if this is some sort of bizarre dream. Any minute now Rose is going to walk through the door, hand in hand with the Brigadier, and offer him some chips, before turning unexpectedly into a mongoose. The children are still chanting his name and the Archangel network has begun twitching and tugging at him minutely. _This is actually impossible_ , the Doctor thinks as he tries to stop it before the Master notices anything.

Fortunately, the chanting seems to be distracting him admirably. “Doctor! Doctor!” the children shout.

“Ask him yourself,” the Master says sourly, which sends the children instantly into embarrassed silence. Several sneak sheepish looks at him and some even try to hide behind the Master, who shoos them away, irritably. “Go on. There he is.”

Nobody moves for a moment, caught in this trap of mortification. Then the boy in the Potter t-shirt says doubtfully: “Are you really the Doctor?”

“Yes, I am,” the Doctor says. “What’s your name?”

“Phil,” the boy says. “You’re very old.”

“Yes, I suppose that's true,” the Doctor says. There is a tug on his left trouser leg and he looks down to see the girl from the night before, smiling at him.

“I knew you were the Doctor all along,” she says wisely. “I’m Fiona Morley and you’re my favourite.”

“Er… thank you,” the Doctor says, thoroughly bemused. “Favourite what?”

But there’s no time for answers as more and more children forget their shyness in favour of curiosity.

“I’m Charlie Lamb. I think you’re great.”

“I’m Simon Docherty.”

“Did you _really_ kill all those metal men?”

“Tell us about when you blew up the Prime Minister’s house!”

“Why are you so _old_?”

The one of them says: “Doctor, tell us about the Master!” and the Master stands up and says “that’s quite enough for tonight. Now be quiet or I’ll tell Phelps to forget the hot-chocolate.”

The children are not so easily deterred however. “You promised!” one of them wails and the rest look on the verge of mutiny or tears. The Doctor wants to tell them that trying to emotionally blackmail the Master is never going to work. But then, he thinks, stranger things have happened in the last ten minutes — perhaps it will.

“I break my promises,” the Master says. “Ask the Doctor. He’s known me a long time.” He looks over at the Doctor. The Doctor raises his eyebrows, and the Master’s contract. He turns back to the children and smiles. “But, as I’m feeling generous today, I’ll show you a magic trick instead if you like. Do you want to see some magic?”

The children nod solemnly. Yes, they do want to see magic. The Doctor, who knows magic does not exist, stands rapidly.

“ _Master_ ,” he says, warningly. He sees a tell-tale flicker in the Master’s mouth at the sound of his name, but it is not enough.

“How old do you think the Doctor is?” the Master asks loudly, like a circus announcer. “Tim?”

“A thousand!” the boy shouts.

“Good guess,” the Master says. “Very good. But, in fact, nobody really knows how old the Doctor is, because he won’t ever tell anybody! Is it a secret; is he too vain to own up to it or has he just forgotten because he’s so incredibly old? I don’t know. But it’s not as old as he looks. Or is it that he’s older than he looks? Who can keep track, eh, Doctor? But I think I have an idea.” He has begun to twirl the laser screwdriver elegantly between his fingers like a magic wand. “Simon, how old are you?”

“Five and a quarter,” Simon Docherty says solemnly.

“What a coincidence,” the Master says, smiling wickedly at the Doctor and adjusting the controls. “That’s how old the Doctor is today.”

The pain is actually worse than it was when he grew old. Aging is a natural process and the Lazarus technology merely sped that process up. Now he is fighting time. With every new contortion the Doctor feels himself hurled into madness briefly and back again as his mind tries and fails to protect him from the agony. It is like being ripped apart over and over again, whilst being simultaneously wrung out by someone who knows what pain means and wants him to know it too. It is like standing on Gallifrey during the destruction and remaining conscious. It is almost unbearable. He wants to scream, but his vocal cords are shrinking and tightening and it seems impossible to make any sound so he screams inside his head and hopes that, somehow, the Master can hear him.

When the pain finally stops he is five years old and lying breathless on the floral-patterned carpet in a suit that is far too big for him. The children burst into applause and the Master makes a little bow. “Again!” someone shouts. “Make him older again!”

The Doctor closes his eyes, braces himself and waits, but the Master says, “no more tonight. Bed time. All of you. Come on, quickly now.”

His voice has brought down empires and commanded the willing hearts of millions. Even these boisterous, unruly children are no match for it really and they scamper off to their respective beds with minimal complaint. As he passes, Charlie Lamb says thoughtfully that the Doctor looks sad and hands the Doctor his doll, to cheer him up. The Doctor gives him a weak smile and says ‘thank you’, though he knows that it will take more than a doll to stop him being sad. The doll is wearing a black suit and tie and the Doctor thinks for a moment that it is a doll of the Master (how typical), before realising his mistake, which only makes him feel worse.

He jabs the Master in the leg as hard as he can with his small hands. When the other Time Lord looks down at him, he holds out the doll that isn’t a doll and says: “who was this?”

The Master peers at the doll-sized figure. “President Winters’s aide,” he announces after some deliberation. “Limited edition. Only one ever made. Nice of Charlie to share him with you.”

The part of the Doctor that is five is on the verge of tears. The Time Lord in him is suppressing the urge to steal the laser screwdriver, age himself up again and break the Master’s nose. Both seem like good plans — the second: 100% Jack Harkness approved - but he already has a plan. It’s a good plan — brilliant, actually. He has to be patient.

There is a knock at the door and a cry of “citizens rejoice!”

“Yes, come in,” the Master says and the door opens. A portly man with greying hair, who is, presumably, Phelps, shambles in with a large tray of hot-chocolate and begins doling it out to the youngsters.

Satisfied that the children are behaving themselves and the hot-chocolate is being distributed fairly, the Master turns his attention to the child at his feet. “Now, hands up,” he commands.

The Doctor crosses his arms and scowls. “’Shant.”

The Master sighs. “Oh, don’t be like that. I’m sorry I made the boring Americans into toys, but it was months ago. Now, be a good boy and let daddy pick you up.”

One of the children in a nearby bed giggles. The Doctor waves the last of his dignity a melancholy farewell and allows himself to be lifted into the Master’s arms. Surprisingly, the Master is very warm and, despite himself, the Doctor finds it quite reassuring to be so close to him. He almost snuggles closer into the Master’s shoulder, but his short limbs still ache, reminding him not to get too comfortable. He wraps podgy arms around the Master’s neck, too-long sleeves flapping foolishly over his hands, and together they make a quick tour of the room, saying goodnight to the children.

“Where did they come from?” the Doctor asks quietly as they pass the rows of beds.

“Oh, here and there,” the Master says, at the same volume. “Sons and daughters of the on-board staff, orphans of the war, et cetera.”

“ _Et cetera_ , eh?”

“Mmm. They seem to have taken a shine to me.”

The Doctor shifts position, so he can look at the man carrying him. “Well, that at least I can believe. After all, the whole country fell in love with you in single week, despite your lack of policy, or a cabinet, or a convincing back-story. Bet they regret that now.”

“The Archangel network doesn’t work like that any more,” the Master says stiffly. “They just like me. People do you know. I’m a likeable person, funny, handsome, charming… though I admit I was lazy with Saxon’s history. But why bother making it believable when they all believe it anyway?”

“Some sense of pride?”

“Oh, that’s your problem. My bestseller was written by Jackie Collins in 2010. Not an easy thing to bear - the prose is atrocious. _Ideally_ , I would have chosen differently, but I didn’t have time to write my own and the TARDIS seems to have locked all the rooms except the wardrobe. So I had to choose from the rubbish selection in the console room. Jackie Collins was the best you had.”

“Martha was reading it.”

“ _Liar_.”

The Doctor lets him have this victory, because it’s harmless and he seems to be enjoying it. They finish their round and the Master lingers in the doorway, watching the burble of happy childish activity.

“Oh… I see. You really like it here,” the Doctor says, wondering. “I was wrong, they’re not just prisoners, are they?”

The Master’s stillness vanishes instantly and his face sets into its usual harsh lines as he says, “don’t pretend you know me”.

“Don’t I?” the Doctor says.

The Master doesn’t answer. He turns and leaves still carrying the small boy who is now the Doctor. The guards outside snap to attention immediately and one opens the third door in the passageway which does indeed seem to lead to the next level. Without looking at his subjects the Master starts up the stairs.

“What they are just,” he says, taking the steps two at a time, “is humans. Half-grown, hairless apes on a backwater planet, weeping and complaining, with no knowledge of their own stupidity, their own _insignificance_. It drives me mad, but their noise is sometimes loud enough to drown out the drumming. Oh, and I lied earlier. Twice, actually — I’m sorry, I really have been very bad today. They’re _also_ insurance for good behaviour, though not yours, I’m afraid. You were wrong there too. I’m _fairly_ sure I have yours already. I don’t need to imprison children to make… sure of it.”

By now they have reached the top of the stairs and the Master is slightly out of breath. His living quarters are, in contrast to the rest of the Valiant, sumptuous, full of light and colour. In the center of the room is a large chandelier. The walls are covered with dark wallpaper and fine art, some of which the Doctor recognises from the TARDIS. The furniture is old, but before the Doctor can establish quite how old, the Master dumps him unceremoniously onto the bed.

“Don’t wander off,” he orders. “I’ll be back soon.” He removes his jacket, throws it carelessly over an almost certainly priceless chair and leaves through a concealed doorway.

The five-year-old Doctor tests the bounciness of the bed, establishes that the furniture is French and late sixteenth century, and considers his position. As far as he can tell, the bed is very bouncy and the situation is mostly bad, with the potential for worse things yet to come. However, despite this, the Doctor is beginning to think that perhaps things won’t get worse after all. For the Master has been telling stories about the Doctor to children. He has told them: the Doctor makes people better. And that’s a start.

There is a bang as the concealed exit slams open and the Master reappears, holding a bottle of scotch in one hand and two glasses in the other. He sits heavily in the chair which makes the Doctor wince and pours a large quantity of scotch into one of the glasses. He sets the bottle on the floor.

“Who’s the other glass for?” the Doctor asks.

The Master swirls his drink. “Well,” he says. “It’s yours if you want it. Or mine, if I get so drunk and angry that I throw this glass at you and can’t be bothered to get up to get another one. Do you want it?”

“I’m five,” the Doctor points out.

The Master nods and takes a large gulp of scotch. “Mine then,” he says. “Good to know.”

He pauses, drinks again and then says: “why is it that you’re _so_ annoying? Please, tell me. Do you find the bed uncomfortable? Or did you sleep badly last night? _Any_ body else would have taken the drink and shut up.” His fingers have begun to tap rhythmically against the side of the glass.

“Master,” the Doctor says, not unkindly. “You stole my TARDIS, trapped me at the end of the universe, took over the earth, tortured my friends, killed literally _billions_ of people, made me old then made me young, both of which were _un_ believably painful by the way, and now I’m five and you want us to drink together and talk about old times. I’m a genius, but even I don’t quite understand why you think I might say yes. Right now, I wouldn’t believe you if you told me my name, though you’re the only person still alive who knows it. _Which_ … is my problem. I want to trust you, because you’re the only person still alive who knows my name, but I can’t and I won’t and I don’t drink with people I don’t trust. If you do, you risk waking up naked in the Ritz in 1993 where a very nice man named _Nigel_ , who works there apparently, will tell you that you owe two thousand pounds in damages which you can choose to pay by cheque or credit card. That,” he says thoughtfully, “was not a good night. I think.”

The Master laughs slightly and the tapping fades. The Doctor says: “Besides, I’m five and it’s still illegal for me to drink on most systems. If you remember, that part’s your fault.”

“We were friends when you were this old,” the Master says. “The first time round anyway. Do you remember?”

“No,” the Doctor says. “Because we didn’t meet until I was eight.”

“I could age you up a few years, if you like,” the Master offers. He reaches round to his jacket pocket and removes the laser screwdriver. He holds it out as if measuring the Doctor against it. “Three years - might not even hurt.”

“No, thank you.”

“Then don’t be so pedantic,” the Master says. The hand gripping the scotch glass is white with tension. “I’m a well known maniac, I might just freak out any minute and kill everyone, and you’re actually _taunting_ me. Three years, who cares?”

“We’re Time Lords,” the Doctor says, shifting on the bed until he’s sitting cross-legged. “You know as well as I do that time matters. Three years, matters, course it does. Think what could happen in three years! Anything. I was eight and you were nine. You had that ridiculous Beatles haircut, if I remember rightly.”

“Well, you can talk,” the Master says, wearily. “Didn’t you second regeneration wear his hair in almost exactly the same style?”

“Well, yes,” the Doctor says. “But the Beatles were cool by then.”

The Master laughs and rubs his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “I suppose you excuse your current, rather vertical style, by claiming Tintin is a valid role model and a snappy dresser.”

The Doctor frowns. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

“It’s more gel than hair, I’m afraid,” the Master says. “A miracle of thirtieth century science.” He pours himself more scotch. “Has nobody mocked you like this before? How exciting. Perhaps this evening won’t be a total waste after all.”

“What are you talking about?” the Doctor says, feeling genuinely worried. “Everyone loves my hair.”

“Yes,” the Master agrees, soothingly. “They all love your hair. That must be why your little gang of attractive misfits followed you across the galaxy. Oh wait a minute. No, it’s probably more to do with the time machine and the tight suit, isn’t it. Silly me. Captain Harkness will be so disappointed it no longer fits. We’ll have to get you a new one now. A tiny pinstripe suit. It’ll be so sweet. Like you’re your own son.”

Their eyes meet and the Master stops laughing.

“Change me back,” the Doctor says. It is not a plea, or a question. The Doctor has never been as hypnotic as the Master, but he has his own power, dulled by his new-youth certainly, but still there. He says _do as I say, or you all die_ and most people follow him. It’s a power based on the fear that they won’t. “I don’t want to be five or a hundred any more. Put me back how I was.”

“And why on earth would I do that?” the Master asks. “So the freak can get a better look at your arse? I’m sorry. It just doesn’t _sound_ like something I’d do.”

The Doctor holds his gaze. “Change me back,” he says calmly. “You’re so confident that you’ve won, but you still fear me, don’t you? You fear what I can do and let me tell you something: you’re right to, because it won’t work. Keeping me like this. I’ll find a way to stop you, whatever you do to me. So you might as well change me back and prove you’re not afraid. Go on.”

The Master frowns and taps the glass of scotch against his lips. He drains it quickly and then, almost without thinking, points the laser screwdriver at the Doctor and switches it on. “Why not?”

Once more the Doctor is flung roughly back and fourth between agony and delirium. But in his conscious moment it’s almost bearable, because he knows that when the pain stops he will, at least, be himself again. With one final shuddering scream, it ends and he gasps for breath in his own body.

He brings both hands up to his face and finds them long, thin and unwrinkled. He wiggles his fingers, grinning broadly. “Ah, it’s good to be home.”

He sits up energetically and finds the Master watching him. “Thank you,” he says, but the Master waves it away.

“I didn’t do it for you. I’m indulging myself.

“How is it,” he says after a moments pause, “that even though this last regeneration of yours has never been to Gallifrey, you still smell like the fields outside the Citadel?” He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. “I noticed it when I was carrying you. Even now I can smell the fields and the library on you, and the scratchy fabric of the initiate robes.” He smiles slightly. “That must be… let’s see, nine hundred and thirty four years ago, precisely. Don’t you ever wash? It must be a nightmare trying to get all that gel out, but still… surely hygiene is an issue…”

“Oh, that’s funny,” the Doctor says, in a tone that implies it isn’t, but that he’s having fun anyway.

“Perhaps I just want to go home so much that I’m imagining it. I already know I’m mad, because the drumming just won’t stop and no one else can hear it. I wouldn’t be surprised if my other senses were cracking up too. It would make sense.”

He opens his eyes again and looks at the Doctor. He says: “You know, that hair really is ridiculous… though must I admit the suit is rather fetching.” He reaches for the scotch again and this time pours it into both glasses.

The Doctor grins impishly. “Fetching enough to abandon this project and follow me across the universe?” he asks, accepting the other glass when the Master offers it to him.

The Master makes a face. “ _Hardly_. I have a very attractive wife already and a world at my command. Why would I give it up for a life which I imagine would involve, you, that piece of junk you call a ship and almost continual planet stops to save people too stupid to save themselves?.” He sips the scotch again. “Besides… the drums are calling me to war. I don’t think a quiet life of heroism is on the cards, do you?”

The Doctor sets his drink down on the floor and leans towards the Master. “Let me help you,” he says.

But the Master leans away from him, resting his head against the back of the chair. “What makes you think I want your help?”

“You told them I fix people,” the Doctor says. He gives the Master a hopeful smile. “I’m the man who makes people better, remember?”

“ _You_ … are a sanctimonious twat in a tight suit.”

“That too,” the Doctor agrees. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t help you. Please, let me in.”

“I told children stories,” the Master says bitterly. “That’s all they were: stories for children. And I’m too old now… I don’t believe any more. It’s been too long… And they’re always inside my head, Everything else is gone. All gone, like Gallifrey.” His fingers are twitching like an addict’s and he puts the glass down before he drops it.

“ _Master_ ,” the Doctor says quietly. “Look at me.”

This time, the sound of his name is just enough. He looks up and their eyes meet as the Doctor presses his hands to the Master’s temples. “I won’t do this if you don’t want me to.”

“Always the good Doctor,” the Master says coolly, and the Doctor pulls his hands away as if burnt. “So clinical…” He smiles and reaches out to stroke the Doctor’s face. “So professional. Asking my permission before invading my privacy. I’m quite touched. No, I am, really. You should have just forced your way in. But, since you asked,” his hand moves down to the Doctor’s tie, “we’ll do it my way.”

With a sharp tug at the tie, he pulls the Doctor towards him. Their lips meet roughly and the Doctor feels everything the Master is rushing through him. It’s all too fast and too much and he can’t catch hold of anything. Nothing makes sense except the feel of the Master’s mouth, and the hand in his hair and the one on his hip and the Master’s teeth on his bottom lip. He feels profoundly grateful that they are lying on the bed so he doesn’t have to worry about falling over. At some point the Master must have pushed him backwards, or he must have pulled the Master on top of him, it’s difficult to remember which though. It’s difficult to remember where he ends and the Master begins. And he knows there is a reason they began this that wasn’t just for the fierce joy of being together, but it seems to have gone.

Then the Master, who is also inside the Doctor’s mind, draws back from his interesting examination of the Doctor’s collar bones and kisses his lips gently. _I’m letting you in, remember?_ And the Doctor remembers and walks amongst his memories.

The Master’s mind is like darkness. He has closed all the doors after their time at the Academy, except one. The Doctor moves towards it and sees the Utopia Project fail. He sees the humans who have survived so long on hope alone, starving and frightened and fighting amongst themselves. He watches with horror as their society collapses, as they revert to childhood. He watches as the Master arrives in the TARDIS and teaches them how they can survive by losing their humanity.

Without thinking he runs, pulling away from the Master’s mind into his own again and looks up into the Master’s face. They are still lying on the bed; the Master still has a hand in his hair.

“ _Why_?” the Doctor whispers. “Why show this to me?”

The Master smiles mirthlessly. “I suppose, I thought you ought to know. Now you do.” He rolls away, and stands up, straightens his tie and collects his jacket. The Doctor notices his bottom lip is bruised. He finds himself forgiving again.

“You can stay in your own body for a while,” the Master says. “Perhaps you can even make a better stab at escaping. I know you’ve been faking it so far. Jack was quite angry when you didn’t come back.”

He picks up the abandoned scotch and the glasses and walks towards the hidden door. Once there, he turns. “I shouldn’t ask, but… whilst you were in my head, did you hear the drums?”

And the Doctor almost wants to say yes, so the Master will know he's not mad, and he's not alone. But inside his head there was only darkness and silence.

“No,” the Doctor says. "There was nothing."

The Master nods as if he had half expected this. “Let yourself out,” he says quietly and leaves.


End file.
